Charles Garret, the Megaphone’s “star” reporter, with his hat on the back of his head, and an apparently inattentive eye fixed on the electrolier, sniffed.
The editor looked at him reflectively.
“A smart man might get into touch with them.”
Charles said, “Yes,” but without enthusiasm.
“If it wasn’t that I knew you,” mused the editor, “I should say you were afraid.”
“I am,” said Charles shamelessly.
“I don’t want to put a younger reporter on this job,” said the editor sadly, “it would look bad for you; but I’m afraid I must.”
Presently, he found himself in Fleet Street, and, standing at the edge of the curb, he answered a taxi-driver’s expectant look with a nod.
“Do,” said Charles with animation, “do, and put me down ten shillings toward the wreath.”
He left the office a few minutes later with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth, and one fixed determination in the deepest and most secret recesses of his heart. It was rather like Charles that, having by an uncompromising firmness established his right to refuse work of a dangerous character, he should of his own will undertake the task against which he had officially set his face. Perhaps his chief knew him as well as he knew himself, for as Charles, with a last defiant snort, stalked from the office, the smile that came to his lips was reflected on the editor’s face.
Walking through the echoing corridors of Megaphone House, Charles whistled that popular and satirical song, the chorus of which runs—
By kind permission of the Megaphone,
By kind permission of the Megaphone.
Summer comes when Spring has gone,
And the world goes spinning on,
By permission of the Daily Megaphone.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.
“37, Presley Street, Walworth—round by the Blue Bob and the second turning to the left.”
Crossing Waterloo Bridge it occurred to him that the taxi might attract attention, so halfway down the Waterloo Road he gave another order, and dismissing the vehicle, he walked the remainder of the way.
Charles knocked at 37 Presley Street, and after a little wait a firm step echoed in the passage, and the door was half opened. The passage was dark, but he could see dimly the thickset figure of the man who stood waiting silently.
“Is that Mr. Long?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the man curtly.
Charles laughed, and the man seemed to recognize the voice and opened the door a little wider.
“Not Mr. Garrett?” he asked in surprise.
“That’s me,” said Charles, and walked into the house.
His host stopped to fasten the door, and Charles heard the snap of the well-oiled lock and the scraping of a chain. Then with an apology the man pushed past him and, opening the door, ushered him into a well-lighted room, motioned Charles to a deep-seated chair, seated himself near a small table, turned down the page of the book from which he had evidently been reading, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
“I’ve come to consult you,” said Charles.
A lesser man than Mr. Long might have been grossly flippant, but this young man—he was thirty-five, but looked older—did not descend to such a level.
“I wanted to consult you,” he said in reply.
His language was the language of a man who addresses an equal, but there was something in his manner which suggested deference.
“You spoke to me about Milton,” he went on, “but I find I can’t read him. I think it is because he is not sufficiently material.” He paused a little. “The only poetry I can read is the poetry of the Bible, and that is because materialism and mysticism are so ingeniously blended—”
He may have seen the shadow on the journalist’s face, but he stopped abruptly.
“I can talk about books another time,” he said.
Charles did not make the conventional disclaimer, but accepted the other’s interpretation of the urgency of his business.
“You know everybody,” said Charles, “all the queer fish in the basket, and a proportion of them get to know you—in time.”
The other nodded gravely.
“When other sources of information fail,” continued the journalist, “I have never hesitated to come to you—Jessen.”
It may be observed that “Mr. Long” at the threshold of the house became “Mr. Jessen” in the intimacy of the inner room.
“I owe more to you than ever you can owe to me,” he said earnestly; “you put me on the track,” he waved his hand round the room as though the refinement of the room was the symbol of that track of which he spoke. “You remember that morning?—if you have forgotten, I haven’t—when I told you that to forget—I must drink? And you said—”
“I haven’t forgotten, Jessen,” said the correspondent quietly; “and the fact that you have accomplished all that you have is a proof that there’s good stuff in you.”
The other accepted the praise without comment.
“Now,” Charles went on, “I want to tell you what I started out to tell: I’m following a big story. It’s the Four Just Men story; you know all about it? I see that you do; well, I’ve got to get into touch with them somehow. I do not for one moment imagine that you can help me, nor do I expect that these chaps have any accomplices amongst the people you know.”
“They have not,” said Jessen; “I haven’t thought it worth while inquiring. Would you like to go to the Guild?”
Charles pursed his lips in thought.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “that’s an idea; yes, when?”
“Tonight—if you wish.”
“Tonight let it be,” said Charles.
His host rose and left the room.
He reappeared presently, wearing a dark overcoat and about his throat a black silk muffler that emphasized the pallor of his strong square face.
“Wait a moment,” he said, and unlocked a drawer, from which he took a revolver.
He turned the magazine carefully, and Charles smiled.
“Will that be necessary?” he asked.
Jessen shook his head.
“No,” he said with a little embarrassment, “but—I have given up all my follies and fancies, but this one sticks.”
“The fear of discovery?”
Jessen nodded.
“It’s the only folly left—this fear.
